


you hit me like a sucker punch

by jolie_unfiltrd



Series: jon x sansa drabbles 2021 [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (Spandex), (lots of it), Annual Stark Olympics, Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking, F/M, Jon Snow and Sansa Stark Are Not Related, Jon Snow is Not a Stark, Jon is Bad at the Macarena, Jon is Thirsty AF, Ned ships it, Rated M for language, Snarky Snark Jon, competitive Sansa, day-drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28784109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolie_unfiltrd/pseuds/jolie_unfiltrd
Summary: Jon is having a truly terrible, horrible day at the Annual Stark Olympics, and it has absolutely everything to do with a certain redhead.---jonsa new year drabbles, day 4:competitiontitle from sigrid, sucker punch
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: jon x sansa drabbles 2021 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2116518
Comments: 29
Kudos: 101
Collections: Jonsa New Year Drabbles





	you hit me like a sucker punch

“Oh, for _fuck’s_ sake,” muttered Jon, as Sansa landed yet another perfect toss in Root Beer Pong, lifting her arms in yet another victory V and doing yet another little twirl.

The Annual Stark Olympics were in full swing and oh, how he _hated_ them.

It wasn’t the food – excellent, all around (mashed potatoes, side salads, fruit salads, tons of desserts from Catelyn, and mouthwatering steaks grilled by Ned Stark).

It wasn’t the weather – listen, he was a good, northern boy who didn’t complain about the cold, or the snow, (even when his balls had retreated for warmer pastures and the snow drifts were up to his knees and it was fucking _January_ in the North).

It wasn’t the company – he’d been around the Starks as long as he could remember, some kind of pseudo-adopted cousin or brother and, well, he loved them as much as they drove him absolutely insane, most days. Robb was like a brother, Arya like the little sister he never had, and Bran and Rickon like two puppies constantly running around yipping at his heels.

It wasn’t even the activities themselves – half of which were so clearly college drinking games that Robb had brought home and barely modified to make them more “family-friendly,” (Wolf Club? Root Beer Pong? Truth or Do It Anyway? _honestly, Robb_ ) and the other half were so clearly team-building activities that Catelyn insisted on to bring them all “closer” (square dancing was the bane of his existence and he tried unsuccessfully to escape it each year).

The worst part wasn’t even how Sansa Stark inevitably won almost every challenge – though, Jon reflected, he didn’t particularly _love_ that either. He sipped his beer angrily as flashes of his most humiliating defeat (how does one even _lose_ at the _Macarena?_ ) consumed his mind.

No, Jon Snow truly hated the Annual Stark Olympics because of those goddamn costumes.

Early on, when the children were small, Catelyn and Ned had gotten completely blitzed on champagne on New Years Eve and came up with the idea that they should have an annual family competition.

And more than _that_ , they should all wear matching costumes – and because they fucking _could_ , every year they all wore long-sleeved, skin-tight, dark grey bodysuits with a custom white howling wolf logo emblazoned on the chest.

Sansa bent down to grab another wine spritzer from the cooler and Jon let his face drop into his hands at the spandex stretched over her perfect ass.

It was enough to drive any heterosexual man insane, and he’d been participating in this display for almost ten years now, so one could imagine that his sanity was merely hanging by the precipice of decorum and politeness.

(Jon hadn’t even really noticed her until the competition after her sixteenth birthday when suddenly this silly, giggling redheaded girl showed up with curves and hips and –

Well, the mere sight of her had wrecked him completely). 

“Alright there, Jon?” Ned Stark’s comforting low baritone sounded a bit too wry for Jon’s comfort, but he chanced a glance at the patriarch anyway.

“Oh, uh, yeah, sir.” Fantastic, he sounded _very_ convincing. It took every iota of his self-control not to roll his eyes at his own damn self.

“So, you finally gonna ask my girl out this year, or what?” Ned said with a half-smile as he sipped his beer.

Jon sputtered the next sip of _his_ beer, choked as he attempted to swallow, and ended up bending over to cough the rest of the shocked gulp out of his system.

Ned, seemingly unconcerned, simply bent over and clanked his bottle against Jon’s with a smug grin on his face. “That’s a yes, then? I’ll cheers to that.”

“I – I wasn’t – she doesn’t even like me that way, sir.” The truth came out, but instead of Ned backing away or nodding in realization with a sad smile (like Jon had always pictured), the man had the audacity to _laugh_ at him.

A full-on, grab his belly while resting his other hand on Jon’s shoulder _chortle_.

“Well,” Ned finally managed to say, with a hearty slap on Jon’s back, “let me know when you’ll want to be asking for my blessing.” And with a final wink, he headed back to the grill, to plant an outrageously enthusiastic kiss on his wife’s cheek, rubbing his whiskers into her neck as she squealed and tried to swat his hands away.

Jon sneakily pinched the skin on the back of his wrist, trying to convince himself that no, this wasn’t some strange, highly specific fever dream. He pinched himself again, wincing at the sting, as Sansa Stark sauntered over to him, half-tipsy and entirely too cheerful for wearing spandex in a snowstorm, even with her unfairly adorable earmuffs and mittens.

“’lo there, Jon,” she smirked, and he just _knew_ she was about to brag about her victories, again, and what came out of his mouth next was as much as a misguided attempt to shut her up about the Human Ring Toss game as it was a burst of unexpected bravery.

“Want to go out sometime?”

Sansa stumbled in surprise, tripping right into Jon’s arms – who dropped his beer into the snow to catch her ‘round the waist with a smug grin. “Is that a yes? Or are you just throwing yourself into my arms now?”

“I –“ she worked to regain her footing, before glaring at him. “It’s a yes. And for the record, throwing myself into your arms looks a little more like this.”

Sansa placed her mittens on each side of his wind-chapped face before planting a feverish, aggressive, fierce kiss on his lips, pressing the length of her body into his. He pulled back in shock, peering into her bright eyes and searching for regret and finding none. 

“For fuck’s _sake_ ,” Jon swore reverently, before diving back in to kiss her once more.

(Okay, okay, so maybe it wasn’t _all_ bad).


End file.
